


Suckitude

by Boz (Bozaloshtsh)



Category: Monsterhearts RPG, Original Work
Genre: Fist Fights, I am so gay for you but I express this by beating the crap out of you, Lacrosse Team, M/M, boys being dumb, mild homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 19:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2282136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bozaloshtsh/pseuds/Boz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darren's meditations on a dumb drill one day during lacrosse practice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suckitude

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this makes your day less shitty SJ. Also ETA: why and how are there actually fucking 50 hits on this thing? I am so thoroughly fucking confused. Unless you read this from 50 different computers, SJ, in which case... I'm impressed?

This sucks.

It possibly goes beyond just simple suckitude -- depending on how you look at it really. Darren's pretty damn sure the Wikipedia article on lacrosse hadn't mentioned the fact that whacking the shit out of people, if you were a defender, was not only legal but sincerely encouraged. To the point that there are entire drills _during practice_ dedicated to newbie freshman midfielders and forwards getting used to having the shit whacked out of them by defenders.

"Hey, hey, _hey_ Darren. Dude," and Darren finds himself already turning at the sound of his name before his brain realizes it means getting to see Chet smirk at him while getting the wind knocked out of him as Chet's stick crashes into his stomach at full force. The guy's hand-eye coordination is surprisingly on-point.

"Get why it's called the "Car Wash" drill now, buddy?" Even bent briefly over in a show of pain --

 _anticipated reaction, buddy_ \-- Samuel's voice cuts in on automatic in the back of Darren's mind -- _you gotta make 'em think they got you, that you're getting worn down, especially when you're taking it in stride_

\-- Darren can hear the self-satisfied curl of Chet's lip in the shit-eating tone of voice he's using. Dodging the next two defenders in the gauntlet run of swinging defenders sticks, Darren manages to hiss back a pretty weak "fuck you dick," and is rewarded by two cheerfully flipped birds before the coach interrupts to yell at him at Chet both for not paying enough attention in practice. Darren can even see Mickey -- who is having way too much fun learning how to be a defender -- fist-bumping Chet the first second he gets. Darren can feel himself scowling.

His second run through, Darren decides a split-second before the sticks start swinging that he's going to try and see if he can fuck with the two of them back this time. There are no explicit instructions _not_ to stick-check back when the defenders try and knock into you with their sticks, and while yeah, Darren does know this is meant to be an endurance drill, to "toughen" everyone up to getting used to shitty blows, fuck that shit if it means not being able to fight back (and fuck Samuel's advice on blending in, it isn't like it's a life-or-death situation).

Mickey and Chet are the eighth and ninth pairing of defenders -- in a double column of twelve pairs in total -- and Darren feels the sweat on his skin carving tiny rivulets as everything in front of him slows down just a little as the adrenaline in his body kicks up just a little bit and he carves and twirls through the battering array of sticks in front of him. Mickey's a little -- strike that, a _lot_ \-- faster than everyone else, but with a slight adjustment and hooking motion of his lacrosse stick, Darren pulls slightly, then pushes viciously to knock Mickey's stick out of the way.

If Darren's maybe a little over-zealous with the deflection of Mickey's stick (into Chet's face, who then stumbles and completely misses his attempt at knocking Darren on his ass when plastic and aluminum flies into his mouth at high speeds), who's really keeping track? Darren jogs neatly through the last three pairings wasting practically no effort in his evasions before finding out the answer to his question -- in the form of Chet's fist flying at his solar plexus -- as he turns back around at the end of the drill.

It's beautiful execution -- for a total sucker punch. This time when Darren doubles over in pain, he's not faking shit. He gets a quick glance at Chet's face before having to focus on his breathing, and boy, Darren supposes it's possible he hit Chet a little harder than he thought he had with the lacrosse stick. He's missing at least one tooth -- the pink of his tongue poking through the muddied line of Chet's snarl -- and he's still bleeding from both his nose and his mouth. The snapshot of Chet's mouth flashes across Darren's mind as he hisses and sinks slowly to the grass. Chet's lip is going to need stitches; Darren knows this from experience.

"You little shit-bird faggot, you fucking knocked my _teeth_ out --"

And something a little detached and weirdly fascinated enters Chet's voice. Darren doesn't need to look up to hear it. Whatever Chet's weird-ass deal is, though, is absolutely distracting him from the one and only chance he'll have to get a follow-up shot. Darren shucks his stick gloves in short, curt yanks, and pushes up to his feet, grabbing for Chet's practice jersey before he even looks the idiot in the face. Darren bunches the fabric in his hands and pulls Chet nose to nose with him -- abruptly, because Darren is expecting a struggle and doesn't get one. Instead he sees Chet, flushed red from under his collar and up his neck, blood starting to dry a bit, pushing at a loose molar with his tooth, split on his lips and in his mouth still laced with bright red ribbons of blood. Chet is wincing a little bit -- from the sensation of the tooth jilting the root nerve or from Darren's fingers digging into his ribs Darren's not sure -- but also seems to be staunchly avoiding Darren's eyes.

The sudden flush press and pliability of Chet's body throws Darren off, and just like that, it's not just Chet blushing.

" _Fuck_ you -- " Darren hisses and launches Chet away from him. Chet sags and then stumbles backwards like a clumsy puppet, falling flat on his back. The hard landing seems to knock some sense back into him because Just like that, Darren sees rage twisting his classmate's face once more, and before he can even register to dodge it, Chet spits blood into his face.

Darren falls on him, forgetting himself for a minute, and wraps one hand around Chet's neck --

 _choke-holds aren't about breath, they're about pulse. Find the carotid and squeeze, kid._ Russ this time in his head, faintly. _No blood, not conscious; say it with me, easy peasy hold and squeezy_

\-- and slaps the other one over Chet's wet, bruised, cut-up mouth so he can't manage to spit at him again. It's second nature for Darren to settle his knees, rock his weight to pin Chet and stop him from bucking him off like a wild animal. Body immobilized, Chet starts to whip his head back and forth, dislodging Darren's positioning on his neck and causing Darren's other hand to slide off the mess of Chet's mouth more than once.

"Pig-fucking son of --"

"-- your mom, fucking asked for --"

" -- fuck off me, you dick gobbl --"

\-- and finally, finally, it's too much, and Darren stops trying to keep his hand over Chet's mouth and slides half his hand in along Chet's teeth and tongue to press and gag the asshole. It stops Chet dead in his tracks, and _that_ lets Darren push and hold on Chet's pulse-points. The struggle's been enough to pull the edges of the cut on Chet's lip jagged again and the kid's bleeding all over Darren's wrists and over his own chin, but Chet isn't doing anything other than fighting the flutter of his eyelids and whining high in his throat.

The fucked thing is that it really doesn't make Darren want to let Chet go at all. And it's that sudden, stunning realization -- coupled with Mickey's strong, insistent arms under his and pulling at his shoulders until he's up and off Chet, the coach's screaming voice in his ear that goes from a dull underwater roar to viscerally present in a half-second flat -- that gets Darren to stop. 

Shit.

Chet is wheezing on the ground, shaking a little like after a run or like after a really decent jerk-off session where you can spend at least an hour just _working_ yourself or -- just -- Jesus, or like someone almost choked the living shit out of you. Darren can't, doesn't. Doesn't want to think about this at all. He needs to wash his hands. He needs to apologize for _completely_ losing control. He doesn't want to look at Chet, but he needs to make sure he didn't do anything _permanent_ to his friend.

And yeah, right, Darren did this to a _friend_ , not an enemy. "Kill me now," he mutters, scrubbing the least bloody of his hands over his face.

But hey, Chet's hopping up -- unassisted -- not even limping, face just completely fucked, glaring sourly at Darren. And the coach's face is stormier still. Mickey's face is oddly ponderous, and the rest of the team is keeping their distance.

"You two retards are going to go see Silvestri, _now_ ," the coach rails. "I don't give a good God damn who started it, but I'm ending it now. You're both too worked up to be of any use to me today, and you're both too promising for me to offhand throw you off the team --" The coach drags Chet along by his left arm, and scoops Darren by his right . Darren's too jittery to do anything much outside of let himself be dragged. "But do _not_ mistake my kindness as weakness. I will not tolerate this kind of flagrant breaking of ranks on my team, no sir. You two sort your shit out, and I am dead serious, do not come back -- neither one of you -- unless you've figured out how to use your two dollar words to reconcile issues instead of knocking them out on the field." 

Coach dumps them both at the back entrance to the school. "And you --" he points a finger at Chet. "You get clearance from Coulson, or you're handing out equipment and warming the bench for the rest of the season. That gaping hole of a cut on your mouth is going to need stitches. Now, get. Both of you."

Darren stares at Chet's shoes, Chet stares at Darren's shoes.

"Jesus Christ, ladies -- if we're all still standing outside in 60 seconds, I will make you skip to Silvestri's office _holding hands_. Spare yourselves the indignity," the coach hollers conversationally.

That's enough to motivate them both inside the door without further prompting.

It's 10 feet away from the office door before Chet says: "Douchebag."

And Darren feels himself smile.


End file.
